Cursor's Fury (Codex Alera #3)(79)

Everything slowed down. Somewhere on one of the levels far above their own, there was a flash of light and a thunderous explosion. Steel rang on steel somewhere else. More screams echoed around the grotto.

Bernard was not slow, especially for a man his size, but he did not have the speed he would need to have a fair chance of combating the assassin unarmed. He lunged to one side as the man swung, putting his body between Isana's and the man's steel blade. The blade struck, and Amara's husband cried out in pain and fell.

The assassin seized Bernard by the hair-but instead of cutting his throat, he simply threw the wounded man aside and raised his sword to strike down at Isana.

Desperate, Amara called to Cirrus-not to push her toward the assassin, but away. She clung to the branch as the weakened wind fury pushed her back. She pushed with all of her strength, then abruptly released the crafting. The branch, bent by the force of the wind, suddenly snapped back. Amara swung on the branch as it did and used its backsweep to propel her, feetfirst back toward the assassin.

She drove her heels into the assassin's chest, all her body rigid to support the vicious blow. She struck cleanly and hard, and the force of the blow snapped the man's head forward and back. She heard bones break, and the assassin fell into a limp mass of bloodied flesh with Amara atop him.

She rolled away from him and seized his sword, crouched on all fours, blood staining her green gown. She stared in shock at the man. The assassin still clung to life, madness burning in his eyes as he let out a final, short, violent cry. "Brothers!"

Amara looked up. Several of the attackers in the grotto had finished their bloody work, and at the dying man's call, the faces of another dozen men with metal collars and lunatic eyes turned toward her. Their path to the exit, a walkway through the trees and a second stone arch, was already filled with more of the men. They were cut off.

"Bernard," she said. "Can you hear me?"

Bernard pushed himself to his feet, his face pale and tight with pain. He glanced back and forth and saw the men approaching and reached for another heavy chair. He let out a choke of pain as he picked it up, and Amara could see a stab wound in the slablike muscles of his back.

"Can you fly?" he asked, his voice quiet. He closed his eyes for a moment, and the chair in his hands abruptly twisted and writhed, suddenly as lithe as a willow branch. The various pieces of the chair elongated and wound and braided themselves together into a thick fighting cudgel as if of their own volition, a massively heavy club that would prove deadly when driven by an earthcrafter's physical strength. "Can you fly?" he asked again.

"I'm not leaving you."

He shot a quick glance at her. "Can you carry my sister out?"

Amara grimaced and shook her head. "I don't think so. Cirrus was hurt. I don't think I could lift myself out yet, much less her."

"I've got her, Bernard," Giraldi said, grimacing. "But you should take her. I'll rear-guard you while both of you get out."

Bernard shook his head. "We stay together. Either of you ever seen men fight like these?"

"No," Amara said.

"No, sir."

"There are a lot of them," Bernard commented. Indeed, the nearest band of half a dozen had made their way down the pathway above them and were nearly close enough to rush them. At least a dozen more blocked their escape and slowly closed so that they would attack in time with the first group. Fires burned on some of the upper levels. A pall of smoke tainted the air and concealed the bloody stars.

"Yes," Amara agreed quietly. She hated that her voice shook with her fear, but she could not stop it. "Whoever they are."